
Class Y^VW A- 
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COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 




RILEY SONGS OF FRIENDSHIP 



RILEY 
SONGS OF FRIENDSHIP 



JAMES 
WHITCOMB RILEY 



ILLUSTRATED BY 



WILL VAWTER 



ta 



INDIANAPOLIS 

THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



Copyright 1885, 1887, 1888, 1890, 

1892, 1893, 1894, 1900, 1903, 1908, 1913, 1915 

James Whitcomb Kiley 



Copyright 1921 
The Bobbs-Merrill Company 



All rights reserved 



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Printed in the United States of America 




DEC -2 1921 



PRESS OF 

BRAUNWORTH & CO. 

BOOK MANUFACTURERS 

BROOKLYN, N. Y. 



J 



©CLA627963 



-V- 



To 

Young E. Allison — Bookman 



T*HE BOOKMAN he's a humming-bird- 
His feasts are honey-fine, — 
(With hi! hilloo! 
And clover-dew 
And roses lush and rare!) 
His roses are the phrase and word 
Of olden tomes divine; 
(With hi! and ho! 
And pinks ablow 
And posies everywhere!) 
The Bookman he's a humming-bird, — 

He steals from song to song — 
He scents the ripest-blooming rhyme, 

And takes his heart along 
And sacks all sweets of bursting verse 
And ballads, throng on throng. 
(With ho! and hey! 
And brook and brae, 
And brinks of shade and shine!) 

A humming-bird the Bookman is — 
Though cumbrous, gray and grim, — 
(With hi! hilloo! 
And honey-dew 
And odors musty-rare!) 
He bends him o'er that page of his 
As o'er the rose's rim. 
(With hi! and ho! 
And pinks aglow 
And roses everywhere!) 
Ay, he's the featest humming-bird, 

On airiest of wings 
He poises pendent o'er the poem 

That blossoms as it sings — 
God friend him as he dips his beak 
In such delicious things! 
(With ho! and hey! 
And world away 
And only dreams for him!) 



O friends of mine, whose kindly words come to me 

Voiced only in lost lisps of ink and pen, 
If I had power to tell the good you do me, 
And how the blood you warm goes laughing through 
me, 
My tongue would babble baby-talk again. 

And I would toddle round the world to meet you — 
Fall at your feet, and clamber to your knees 

And with glad, happy hands would reach and greet 
you, 

And twine my arms about you, and entreat you 
For leave to weave a thousand rhymes like these — 

A thousand rhymes enwrought of nought but presses 

Of cherry-lip and apple-cheek and chin, 
And pats of honeyed palms, and rare caresses, 
And all the sweets of which as Fancy guesses 
She folds away her wings and swoons therein. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Abe Martin 132 

America's Thanksgiving 177 

Ancient Printerman, The 92 

Art and Poetry 68 

Back from Town 17 

Be Our Fortunes as They May 28 

Because 142 

Christmas Greeting 176 

Dan O'Sullivan 124 

Dead Joke and the Funny Man, The 174 

Down to the Capital . 70 

Friend of a Wayward Hour 40 

good-by er howdy-do 52 

Her Valentine 119 

Herr Weiser 143 

Hobo Voluntary, A 19 

I Smoke My Pipe 30 

In the Afternoon 138 

In the Heart of June Ill 

James B. Maynard 91 

Letter to a Friend, A 46 

"Little Man in the Tinshop, The'- 55 

Little Old Poem that Nobody Reads, The . . . 136 

Mother-Song, A 148 

My Bachelor Chum 64 



CONTENTS— Continued 

PAGE 

My Friend 117 

My Henry . ....... ■'■ ...... . 42 

My Jolly Friend's Secret 105 

My Old Friend 126 

Old Band, The 112 

Old Chums . . . . 80 

Old-Fashioned Bible, The 48 

Old John Henry 128 

Old Indiany 180 

Old Man, The 83 

Old Man and Jim, The 96 

Old School-Chum, The 103 

Our Old Friend Neverfail 62 

Poet's Love for the Children, The ...... 36 

Reach Your Hand to Me 170 

Scotty •.. 81 

Song by Uncle Sidney, A 35 

Song of Long Ago, A ■ . 164 

Stepmother, The 152 

That Night 158 

To Almon Keefer 160 

To the Quiet Observer 168 

Tommy Smith 60 

Traveling Man, The 120 

Uncle Sidney to Marcellus 34 

What "Old Santa" Overheard 150 

When Old Jack Died 153 

When We Three Meet 54 



RILEY SONGS OF FRIENDSHIP 





BACK FROM TOWN 



OLD friends alius is the best, 
Halest-like and heartiest: 
Knowed us first, and don't allow 
We're so blame much better now ! 
They was standin' at the bars 
When we grabbed "the kivvered kyars' 
And lit out fer town, to make 
Money — and that old mistake! 
17 



BACK FROM TOWN 

We thought then the world we went 
Into beat "The Settlement," 
And the friends 'at we'd make there 
Would beat any anywhere ! — 
And they do — f er that's their biz : 
They beat all the friends they is — 
'Cept the raal old friends like you 
'At staid at home, like I'd ort to ! 

W'y, of all the good things yit 
I ain't shet of, is to quit 
Business, and git back to sheer 
These old comforts waitin' here — 
These old friends ; and these old hands 
'At a feller understands ; 
These old winter nights, and old 
Young-folks chased in out the cold ! 

Sing "Hard Times'll come ag'in 
No More!" and neighbers all jine in! 
Here's a feller come from town 
Wants that-air old fiddle down 
From the chimbly! — Git the floor 
Cleared fer one cowtillion more! — 
It's poke the kitchen fire, says he, 
And shake a friendly leg with me ! 
18 




A HOBO VOLUNTARY 

OH, the hobo's life is a roving life; 
It robs pretty maids of their heart's delight- 
It causes them to weep and it causes them to mourn 
For the life of a hobo, never to return. 

The hobo's heart it is light and free, 

Though it's Sweethearts all, farewell, to thee ! — 

Farewell to thee, for it's far away 

The homeless hobo's footsteps stray. 

In the morning bright, or the dusk so dim, 
It's any path is the one for him ! 
He'll take his chances, long or short, 
For to meet his fate with a valiant heart. 

19 



A HOBO VOLUNTARY 

Oh, it's beauty mops out the sidetracked-car, 
And it's beauty-beaut' at the pigs-feet bar ; 
But when his drinks and his eats is made 
Then the hobo shunts off down the grade. 

He camps near town, on the old crick-bank, 
And he cuts his name on the water-tank — 
He cuts his name and the hobo sign, — 
"Bound for the land of corn and wine!" 

(Oh, it's I like friends that he'ps me through, 
And the friends also that he'ps you, too, — 
Oh, I like all friends, 'most every kind 
But I don't like friends that don't like mine.) 

There's friends of mine, when they gits the hunch, 
Comes a swarmin' in, the blasted bunch, — 
"Clog-step Jonny" and "Flat-wheel Bill" 
And "Brockey Ike" from Circleville. 

With "Cooney Ward" and "Sikes the Kid" 
And old "Pop Lawson" — the best we had — 
The rankest mug and the worst for lush 
And the dandiest of the whole blame push. 

20 



A HOBO VOLUNTARY 

Oh, them's the times I remembers best 
When I took my chances with all the rest, 
And hogged fried chicken and roastin' ears, too, 
And sucked cheroots when the feed was through. 

Oh, the hobo's way is the railroad line, 
And it's little he cares for schedule time ; 
Whatever town he's a-striken for 
Will wait for him till he gets there. 

And whatever burg that he lands in 
There's beauties there just thick for him — 
There's beauty at "The Queen's Taste Lunch-stand/' 

sure, 
Or "The Last Chance Boardin' House" back-door. 

He's lonesome-like, so he gits run in, 
To git the hang o' the world ag'in; 
But the laundry circles he moves in there 
Makes him sigh for the country air, — 

So it's Good-by gals ! and he takes his chance 
And wads hisself through the workhouse-fence: 



23 



A HOBO VOLUNTARY 

He sheds the town and the railroad, too, 
And strikes mud roads for a change of view. 

The jay drives by on his way to town, 
And looks on the hobo in high scorn, 
And so likewise does the farmhands stare — 
But what the haids does the hobo care! 

He hits the pike, in the summer's heat 

Or the winter's cold, with its snow and sleet — 

With a boot on one foot, and one shoe — 

Or he goes barefoot, if he chooses to. 

But he likes the best, when the days is warm, 
With his bum Prince- Albert on his arm — 
He likes to size up a farmhouse where 
They hain't no man nor bulldog there. 

Oh, he gits his meals wherever he can, 
So natchurly he's a handy man — 
He's a handy man both day and night, 
And he's always blest with an appetite! 

A tin o' black coffee, and a rhubarb pie — 
Be they old and cold as charity — 

24 




' 



A HOBO VOLUNTARY 

They're hot-stuff enough for the pore hobo, 
And it's "Thanks, kind lady, for to treat me so!" 

Then he fills his pipe with a stub cigar 
And swipes a coal from the kitchen fire, 
And the hired girl says, in a smilin' tone, — 
"It's good-by, John, if you call that goin' !" 

Oh, the hobo's life is a roving life, 
It robs pretty maids of their heart's delight — 
It causes them to weep and it causes them to mourn 
For the life of a hobo, never to return. 





BE OUR FORTUNES AS THEY MAY 

BE our fortunes as they may, 
Touched with loss or sorrow, 
Saddest eyes that weep to-day 
May be glad to-morrow. 



Yesterday the rain was here, 
And the winds were blowing- 

Sky and earth and atmosphere 
Brimmed and overflowing. 
28 



BE OUR FORTUNES AS THEY MAY 

But to-day the sun is out, 
And the drear November 

We were then so vexed about 
Now we scarce remember. 

Yesterday you lost a friend — 
Bless your heart and love it! — 

For you scarce could comprehend 
All the aching of it; — 

But I sing to you and say : 
Let the lost friend sorrow-^ 

Here's another come to-day, 
Others may to-morrow. 




I SMOKE MY PIPE 

I CAN'T extend to every friend 
In need a helping hand — 
No matter though I wish it so, 
'Tis not as Fortune planned; 
But haply may I fancy they 

Are men of different stripe 
Than others think who hint and wink,- 
And so — I smoke my pipe! 

A golden coal to crown the bowl — 

My pipe and I alone, — 
I sit and muse with idler views 

Perchance than I should own: — 
It might be worse to own the purse 

Whose glutted bowels gripe 
In little qualms of stinted alms ; 

And so I smoke my pipe. 
30 



I SMOKE MY PIPE 

And if inclined to moor my mind 

And cast the anchor Hope, 
A puff of breath will put to death 

The morbid misanthrope 
That lurks inside — as errors hide 

In standing forms of type 
To mar at birth some line of worth ; 

And so I smoke my pipe. 

The subtle stings misfortune flings 

Can give me little pain 
When my narcotic spell has wrought 

This quiet in my brain : 
When I can waste the past in taste 

So luscious and so ripe 
That like an elf I hug myself; 

And so I smoke my pipe. 

And wrapped in shrouds of drifting clouds 

I watch the phantom's flight, 
Till alien eyes from Paradise 

Smile on me as I write : 
And I forgive the wrongs that live, 

As lightly as I wipe 
Away the tear that rises here ; 

And so I smoke my pipe. 
33 




UNCLE SIDNEY TO MARCELLUS 

MARCELLUS, won't you tell us— 
Truly tell us, if you can, — 
What will you be, Marcellus, 
When you get to be a man? 



You turn, with never answer 
But to the band that plays, — 

O rapt and eerie dancer, 
What of your future days ? 
34 



UNCLE SIDNEY TO MARCELLUS 

For in the years before us 
We dreamers see your fame, 

While song and praise in chorus 
Make music of your name. 

And though our dreams foretell us 

As only visions can, 
You must prove it, Marcellus, 

When you get to be a man ! 



A SONG BY UNCLE SIDNEY 

OWERE I not a clod, intent 
On being just an earthly thing, 
I'd be that rare embodiment 

Of Heart and Spirit, Voice and Wing, 
With pure, ecstatic, rapture-sent, 

Divinely-tender twittering 
That Echo swoons to re-present, — 
A bluebird in the Spring. 
35 




THE POET'S LOVE FOR THE CHILDREN 

KINDLY and warm and tender, 
He nestled each childish palm 
So close in his own that his touch was a prayer 
And his speech a blessed psalm. 



He has turned from the marvelous pages 
Of many an alien tome — 
Haply come down from Olivet, 
Or out from the gates of Rome — 
36 



* 



1 



i 







THE POET'S LOVE FOR THE CHILDREN 

Set sail o'er the seas between him 
And each little beckoning hand 
That fluttered about in the meadows 
And groves of his native land, — 

Fluttered and flashed on his vision 
As, in the glimmering light 
Of the orchard-lands of childhood, 
The blossoms of pink and white. 

And there have been sobs in his bosom, 
As out on the shores he stept, 
And many a little welcomer 
Has wondered why he wept. — 

That was because, children, 

Ye might not always be 

The same that the Savior's arms were wound 

About, in Galilee. 




FRIEND OF A WAYWARD HOUR 

FRIEND of a wayward hour, you came 
Like some good ghost, and went the same ; 
And I within the haunted place 
Sit smiling on your vanished face, 
And talking with — your name. 



But thrice the pressure of your hand — 
First hail — congratulations — and 
Your last "God bless you !" as the train 
That brought you snatched you back again 
Into the unknown land. 
40 



FRIEND OF A WAYWARD HOUR 

"God bless me?" Why, your very prayer 
Was answered ere you asked it there, 
I know — for when you came to lend 
Me your kind hand, and call me friend, 
God blessed me unaware. 




!1 P '■■ — """" —""Wr— 




MY HENRY 

HE'S jes' a great, big, awk'ard, hulkin' 
Feller, — humped, and sort o' sulkin'- 
Like, and ruther still-appearin , — 
Kind-as-ef he wuzn't keerin' 

Whether school helt out er not- 
That's my Henry, to a dot! 

Alius kind o' liked him — whether 

Childern er growed-up together! 

Fifteen year* ago and better, 

'Fore he ever knowed a letter, 
Run acrosst the little fool 
In my Primer-class at school. 
42 











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MY HENRY 

When the Teacher wuzn't looking 
He'd be th'owin' wads ; er crookin' 
Pins; er sprinklin' pepper, more'n 
Likely, on the stove; er borin' 

Gimlet-holes up thue his desk — 
Nothin' that boy wouldn't resk ! 

But, somehow, as I was goin' 
On to say, he seemed so knowin', 
Other ways, and cute and cunnin' — 
Alius wuz a notion runnin' 

Thue my giddy, fool-head he 
Jes' had be'n cut out fer me! 

Don't go much on prophesyin', 
But last night whilse I wuz fryin' 
Supper, with that man a-pitchin' 
Little Marthy round the kitchen, 
Think-says-I, "Them baby's eyes 
Is my Henry's, jes' p'cise !" 






A LETTER TO A FRIEND 

THE past is like a story 
I have listened to in dreams 
That vanished in the glory 

ftf the Morning's early gleams; 
And — at my shadow glancing — 

I feel a loss of strength, 
As the Day of Life advancing 

Leaves it shorn of half its length. 
46 



A LETTER TO A FRIEND 

But it's all in vain to worry 

At the rapid race of Time — 
And he flies in such a flurry 

When I trip him with a rhyme, 
I'll bother him no longer 

Than to thank you for the thought 
That "my fame is growing stronger 

As you really think it ought." 

And though I fall below it, 

I might know as much of mirth 
To live and die a poet 

Of unacknowledged worth; 
For Fame is but a vagrant — 

Though a loyal one and brave, 
And his laurels ne'er so fragrant 

As when scattered o'er the grave. 





THE OLD-FASHIONED BIBLE 

HOW dear to my heart are the scenes of my child- 
hood 
That now but in mem'ry I sadly review ; 
The old meeting-house at the edge of the wildwood, 

The rail fence and horses all tethered thereto ; 
The low, sloping roof, and the bell in the steeple, 

The doves that came fluttering out overhead 
As it solemnly gathered the God-fearing people 
To hear the old Bible my grandfather read. 
The old-fashioned Bible — 
The dust-covered Bible — 
The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read. 

48 





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V 





THE OLD-FASHIONED BIBLE 

The blessed old volume ! The face bent above it — 

As now I recall it — is gravely severe, 
Though the reverent eye that droops downward to 
love it 
Makes grander the text through the lens of a tear, 
And, as down his features it trickles and glistens, 
The cough of the deacon is stilled, and his head 
Like a haloed patriarch's leans as he listens 
To hear the old Bible my grandfather read. 
The old-fashioned Bible — 
The dust-covered Bible — 
The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read. 

Ah ! who shall look backward with scorn and derision 

And scoff the old book though it uselessly lies 
In the dust of the past, while this newer revision 

Lisps on of a hope and a home in the skies ? 
Shall the voice of the Master be stifled and riven ? 

Shall we hear but a tithe of the words He has said, 
When so long He has, listening, leaned out of Heaven 
To hear the old Bible my grandfather read ? 
The old-fashioned Bible — 
The dust-covered Bible — 
The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read. 

51 




GOOD-BY ER HOWDY-DO 



SAY good-by er howdy-do — 
What's the odds betwixt the two? 
Comm' — -goin', ev'ry day — 
Best friends first to go away — 
Grasp of hands you'd ruther hold 
Than their weight in solid gold 
Slips their grip while greetin' you.— - 
Say good-by er howdy- do ! 
52 



GOOD-BY ER HOWDY-DO 

Howdy-do, and then, good-by — 
Mixes jes' like laugh and cry; 
Deaths and births, and worst and best, 
Tangled their contrariest ; 
Ev'ry jinglin' weddin'-bell 
Skeerin' up some funer'l knell. — 
Here's my song, and there's your sigh.— 
Howdy-do, and then, good-by ! 

Say good-by er howdy-do — 
Jes' the same to me and you ; 
'Taint worth while to make no fuss, 
'Cause the job's put up on us! 
Some One's runnin' this concern 
That's got nothin' else to learn : 
Ef He's willin', we'll pull through- 
Say good-by er howdy-do ! 




WHEN WE THREE MEET 

WHEN we three meet? Ah! friend of mine 
Whose verses well and flow as wine, — 
My thirsting fancy thou dost fill 
With draughts delicious, sweeter still 
Since tasted by those lips of thine. 

I pledge thee, through the chill sunshine 
Of autumn, with a warmth divine, 
Thrilled through as only I shall thrill 
When we three meet. 

I pledge thee, if we fast or dine, 
We yet shall loosen, line by line, 
Old ballads, and the blither trill 
Of our-time singers — for there will 
Be with us all the Muses nine 
When we three meet. 
54 




"THE LITTLE MAN IN THE TINSHOP" 

WHEN I was a little boy, long ago, 
And spoke of the theater as the "show," 
The first one that I went to see, 
Mother's brother it was took me— 
(My uncle, of course, though he seemed to be 
Only a boy — I loved him so!) 
And ah, how pleasant he made it all ! 
And the things he knew that / should know ! — 
The stage, the "drop," and the frescoed wall; 
The sudden flash of the lights; and oh, 
The orchestra, with its melody, 
And the lilt and jingle and jubilee 

Of "The Little Man in the Tinshop" ! 
55 



"THE LITTLE MAN IN THE TINSHOP" 

For Uncle showed me the "Leader" there, 

With his pale, bleak forehead and long, black hair 

Showed me the "Second," and " 'Cello," and "Bass/ 

And the "B-Flat," pouting and puffing his face 

At the little end of the horn he blew 

Silvery bubbles of music through; 

And he coined me names of them, each in turn, 

Some comical name that I laughed to learn, 

Clean on down to the last and best, — 

The lively little man, never at rest, 

Who hides away at the end of the string, 

And tinkers and plays on everything, — 

That's "The Little Man in the Tinshop" ! 

Raking a drum like a rattle of hail, 
Clinking a cymbal or castanet; 
Chirping a twitter or sending a wail 
Through a piccolo that thrills me yet; 
Reeling ripples of riotous bells, 
And tipsy tinkles of triangles — 
Wrangled and tangled in skeins of sound 
Till it seemed that my very soul spun round, 
As I leaned, in a breathless joy, toward my 
Radiant uncle, who snapped his eye 
And said, with the courtliest wave of his hand, 
"Why, that little master of all the band 
Is 'The Little Man in the Tinshop' ! 
56 



"THE LITTLE MAN IN THE TINSHOP" 

"And I've heard Verdi, the Wonderful, 
And Paganini, and Ole Bull, 
Mozart, Handel, and Mendelssohn, 
And fair Parepa, whose matchless tone 
Karl, her master, with magic bow, 
Blent with the angels', and held her so 
Tranced till the rapturous Infinite — 
And I've heard arias, faint and low, 
From many an operatic light 
Glimmering on my swimming sight 
Dimmer and dimmer, until, at last, 
I still sit, holding my roses fast 

For The Little Man in the Tinshop.' " 

Oho ! my Little Man, joy to you — - 
And yours — and theirs — your lifetime through! 
Though I've heard melodies, boy and man. 
Since first "the show" of my life began, 
Never yet have I listened to 
Sadder, madder, or gladder glees 
Than your unharmonied harmonies; 
For yours is the music that appeals 
To all the fervor the boy's heart feels — 
All his glories, his wildest cheers, 
His bravest hopes, and his brightest tears; 
And so, with his first bouquet, he kneels 
To "The Little Man in the Tinshop.'-' 
59 




TOMMY SMITH 

DIMPLE-cheeked and rosy-lipped, 
With his cap-rim backward tipped, 
Still in fancy I can see 
Little Tommy smile on me — 
Little Tommy Smith. 



Little unsung Tommy Smith — 
Scarce a name to rhyme it with ; 
Yet most tenderly to me 
Something sings unceasingly — 
Little Tommy Smith. 
60 



TOMMY SMITH 

On the verge of some far land 
Still forever does he stand, 
With his cap-rim rakishly 
Tilted ; so he smiles on me — 
Little Tommy Smith. 

Elder-blooms contrast the grace 
Of the rover's radiant face — 
Whistling back, in mimicry, 
"Old— Bob— White !" all liquidiy ~ 
Little Tommy Smith. 

my jaunty statuette 
Of first love, I see you yet. 
Though you smile so mistily 
It is but through tears I see, 
Little Tommy Smith. 

But, with crown tipped back behind 
And the glad hand of the wind 
Smoothing back your hair, I sec 
Heaven's best angel smile on me, — 
Little Tommy Smith. 




OUR OLD FRIEND NEVERFAIL 







IT'S good to ketch a relative 'at's richer and 
don't run 
When you holler out to hold up, and'll joke and have 

his fun; 
It's good to hear a man called bad and then find out 

he's not, 
Er strike some chap they call lukewarm 'at's really 
red-hot ; 

62 



OUR OLD FRIEND NEVERFAIL 

It's good to know the Devil's painted jes' a leetle 

black, 
And it's good to have most anybody pat you on the 

back ; — 
But jes' the best thing in the world's our old friend 

Neverfail, 
When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags 
his tail ! 

I like to strike the man I owe the same time I can 

pay, 
And take back things I've borried, and su'prise folks 

thataway ; 
I like to find out that the man I voted fer last fall, 
That didn't git elected, was a scoundrel after all ; 
I like the man that likes the pore and he'ps 'em when 

he can ; 
I like to meet a ragged tramp 'at's still a gentleman ; 
But most I like — with you, my boy — our old friend 

Neverfail, 
When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog 

wags his tail ! 



MY BACHELOR CHUM 

A CORPULENT man is my bachelor chum, 
With a neck apoplectic and thick — 
An abdomen on him as big as a drum, 

And a fist big enough for the stick ; 
With a walk that for grace is clear out of the case. 

And a wobble uncertain — as though 
His little bow-legs had forgotten the pace 
That in youth used to favor him so. 

He is forty, at least ; and the top of his head 

Is a bald and a glittering thing; 
And his nose and his two chubby cheeks are as red 

As three rival roses in spring ; 

64 



MY BACHELOR CHUM 

His mouth is a grin with the corners tucked in, 
And his laugh is so breezy and bright 

That it ripples his features and dimples his chin 
With a billowy look of delight. 

He is fond of declaring he "don't care a straw" — 

That "the ills of a bachelor's life 
Are blisses, compared with a mother-in-law 

And a boarding-school miss for a wife!" 
So he smokes and he drinks, and he jokes and he 
winks, 

And he dines and he wines, all alone, 
With a thumb ever ready to snap as he thinks 

Of the comforts he never has known. 

But up in his den — (Ah, my bachelor chum!) — 

I have sat with him there in the gloom, 
When the laugh of his lips died away to become 

But a phantom of mirth in the room. 
And to look on him there you would love him, for all 

His ridiculous ways, and be dumb 
As the little girl-face that smiles down from the wall 

On the tears of my bachelor chum. 




ART AND POETRY 



TO HOMEK DAVENPORT 



w 



ESS he says, and sort o' grins ; 
Art and Poetry is twins! 



"Yit, if I'd my pick, I'd shake 
Poetry, and no mistake! 



"Pictures, alius, 'peared to me, 
Clean laid over Poetry! 
68 



ART AND POETRY 

"Let me draw, and then, i jings, 
HI not keer a straw who sings 

" 'F I could draw as you have drew, 
Like to jes' swop pens with you ! 

"Picture-drawin' 's my pet vision 
Of Life-work in Lands Elysian. 

"Pictures is first language we 
Find hacked out in History. 

"Most delight we ever took 
Was in our first Picture-book. 

" Thout the funny picture-makers, 
They'd be lots more undertakers! 

"Still, as I say, Rhymes and Art 
'Smighty hard to tell apart. 

"Songs and pictures go together 
Same as birds and summer weather." 

So Wess says, and sort o' grins, 
"Art and Poetry is twins." 
69 




DOWN TO THE CAPITAL 



I' BE'N down to the Capital at Washington, D. C, 
Where Congerss meets and passes on the pen- 
sions ort to be 
Allowed to old one-legged chaps, like me, 'at sence 

the war 
Don't wear their pants in pairs at all — and yit how 
proud we are ! 

70 



DOWN TO THE CAPITAL 

Old Flukens, from our deestrick, jes' turned in and 

tuck and made 
Me stay with him whilse I was there ; and longer 'at 

I stayed 
The more I kep' a-wantin' jes' to kind o' git away, 
And yit a-feelin' sociabler with Flukens ever' day. 

You see I'd got the idy — and I guess most folks 

agrees — 
'At men as rich as him, you know, kin do jes' what 

they please ; 
A man worth stacks o' money, and a Congerssman 

and all, 
And livin' in a buildin' bigger'n Masonic Hall ! 

Now mind, I'm not a-faultin' Fluke — he made his 

money square: 
We both was Forty-niners, and both bu'sted gittin' 

there ; 
I weakened and onwindlassed, and he stuck and 

stayed and made 
His millions ; don't know what I'm worth untel my 

pension's paid. 



71 



DOWN TO THE CAPITAL 

But I was goin' to tell you — er a-ruther goin' to try 
To tell you how he's livin' now : gas burnin' mighty 

nigh 
In ever' room about the house ; and ever' night, about, 
Some blame reception goin' on, and money goin' out. 

They's people there from all the world — jes' ever' 

kind 'at lives, 
Injuns and all ! and Senaters, and Ripresentatives ; 
And girls, you know, jes' dressed in gauze and roses, 

I declare, 
And even old men shamblin' round a-waltzin' with 

'em there! 

And bands a-tootin' circus-tunes, 'way in some other 

room 
Jes' chokin' full o' hothouse plants and pinies and 

perfume ; 
And fountains, squirtin' stiddy all the time; and 

statutes, made 
Out 'o puore marble, 'peared-like, sneakin' round 

there in the shade. 



72 



DOWN TO THE CAPITAL 

And Fluke he coaxed and begged and pled with me 

to take a hand 
And sashay in amongst 'em — crutch and all, you 

understand ; 
But when I said how tired I was, and made fer open 

air, 
He f ollered, and tel five o'clock we set a-talkin' there. 

"My God !" says he — Fluke says to me, "I'm tireder'n 

you! 
Don't putt up yer tobacker tel you give a man a 

chew. 
Set back a leetle f urder in the shadder — that'll do ; 
I'm tireder'n you, old man ; I'm tireder'n you. 

"You see that-air old dome," says he, "humped up 

ag'inst the sky? 
It's grand, first time you see it; but it changes, by 

and by, 
And then it stays jes' thataway — jes' anchored high 

and dry 
Betwixt the sky up yender and the achin' of yer 

eye. 



75 



DOWN TO THE CAPITAL 

"Night's purty ; not so purty, though, as what it ust 

to be 
When my first wife was livin'. You remember her?" 

says he. 
I nodded-like, and Fluke went on, "I wonder now ef 

she 
Knows where I am — and what I am — and what I ust 

to be? 

"That band in there! — I ust to think 'at music 

couldn't wear 
A feller out the way it does; but that ain't music 

there — 
That's jes' a' imitation, and like ever 'thing, I swear, 
I hear, er see, er tetch, er taste, er tackle anywhere ! 

"It's all jes' artificial, this-'ere high-priced life of 

ours; 
The theory, it's sweet enough, tel it saps down and 

sours. 
They's no home left, ner ties o' home about it. By 

the powers, 
The whole thing's artificialer'n artificial flowers! 



76 



DOWN TO THE CAPITAL 

"And all I want, and could lay down and sob fer, is 

to know 
The homely things of homely life ; fer instance, jes' 

to go 
And set down by the kitchen stove — Lord ! that 'u'd 

rest me so, — 
Jes' set there, like I ust to do, and laugh and joke, you 

know. 

"Jes* set there, like I ust to do," says Fluke, a-startin' 

in, 
Teared-like, to say the whole thing over to hisse'f 

ag'in ; 
Then stopped and turned, and kind o' coughed, and 

stooped and fumbled fer 
Somepin' o' 'nuther in the grass — I guess his hand- 

kercher. 

Well, sence I'm back from Washington, where I left 

Fluke a-still 
A-leggin' fer me, heart and soul, on that-air pension 

bill, 
I've half-way struck the notion, when I think o' 

wealth and sich, 
They's nothin' much patheticker'n jes' a-bein' rich ! 

79 




OLD CHUMS 

IF I die first," my old chum paused to say, 
"Mind ! not a whimper of regret : — instead, 
Laugh and be glad, as I shall. — Being dead, 
I shall not lodge so very far away 
But that our mirth shall mingle. — So, the day 
The word comes, joy with me." "I'll try," I said, 
Though, even speaking, sighed and shook my head 
And turned, with misted eyes. His roundelay 
Rang gaily on the stair ; and then the door 

Opened and — closed. . . . Yet something of the 
clear, 
Hale hope, and force of wholesome faith he had 
Abided with me — strengthened more and more. — 
Then — then they brought his broken body here : 
And I laughed — whisperingly — and we were 
glad. 

80 




SCOTTY 

SCOTTY'S dead.— Of course he is! 
Jes' that same old luck of his ! — 
Ever sence we went cahoots 
He's be'n first, you bet yer boots ! 
When our schoolm' first begun, 
Got two whipping to my one : 
Stold and smoked the first cigar : 
Stood up first before the bar, 
Takin' whisky-straight — and me 
Wastin' time on "blackberry" ! 
81 



SCOTTY 

Beat me in the Army, too, 
And clean on the whole way through !- 
In more scrapes around the camp, 
And more troubles, on the tramp : 
Fought and fell there by my side 
With more bullets in his hide, 
And more glory in the cause, — 
That's the kind o' man he was ! 
Luck liked Scotty more'n me. — 
/ got married : Scotty, he 
Never even would apply 
Fer the pension-money I 
Had to beg of "Uncle Sam"— 
That's the kind o' cuss / am ! — 
Scotty alius first and best — 
Me the last and onriest ! 
Yit fer all that's said and done — 
All the battles fought and won — 
We hain't prospered, him ner me — 
Both as pore as pore could be, — 
Though we've alius, up tel now, 
Stuck together anyhow — 
Scotty alius, as I've said, 
Luckiest — And now he's dead! 
82 




THE OLD MAN 



LO! steadfast and serene, 
In patient pause between 
The seen and the unseen, 

What gentle zephyrs fan 
Your silken silver hair, — 
And what diviner air 
Breathes round you like a prayer, 
Old Man? 

83 



THE OLD MAN 

Can you, in nearer view 
Of Glory, pierce the blue 
Of happy Heaven through ; 

And, listening mutely, can 
Your senses, dull to us, 
Hear Angel-voices thus, 
In chorus glorious — 

Old Man? 

In your reposeful gaze 
The dusk of Autumn days 
Is blent with April haze, 

As when of old began 
The bursting of the bud 
Of rosy babyhood — 
When all the world was good, 

Old Man. 

And yet I find a sly 

Little twinkle in your eye ; 

And your whispering shy 

Little laugh is simply an 
Internal shout of glee 
That betrays the fallacy 
You'd perpetrate on me, 

Old Man. 

84 



THE OLD MAN 

So just put up the frown 

That your brows are pulling down ! 

Why, the fleetest boy in town, 

As he bared his feet and ran, 
Could read with half a glance — 
And of keen rebuke, perchance — 
Your secret countenance, 

Old Man. 

Now, honestly, confess : 
Is an old man any less 
Than the little child we bless 

And caress when we can? 
Isn't age but just a place 
Where you mask the childish face 
To preserve its inner grace 

Old Man? 

Hasn't age a truant day, 
Just as that you went astray 
In the wayward, restless way, 

When, brown with dust and tan, 
Your roguish face essayed, 
In solemn masquerade, 
To hide the smile it made, 

Old Man? 

87 



THE OLD MAN 

Now, fair, and square, and true, 
Don't your old soul tremble through, 
As in youth it used to do 

When it brimmed and overran 
With the strange, enchanted sights, 
And the splendors and delights 
Of the old "Arabian Nights," 

Old Man? 

When, haply, you have fared 
Where glad Aladdin shared 
His lamp with you, and dared 

The Af rite and his clan ; 
And, with him, clambered through 
The trees where jewels grew — 
And filled your pockets, too, 

Old Man? 

Or, with Sinbad, at sea — 

And in veracity 

Who has sinned as bad as he, 

Or would, or will, or can?— = 
Have you listened to his lies, 
With open mouth and eyes, 
And learned his art likewise, 

Old Man? 

88 






THE OLD MAN 

And you need not deny 

That your eyes were wet as dry, 

Reading novels on the sly ! 

And review them, if you can 
And the same warm tears will fall — 
Only faster, that is all — 
Over Little Nell and Paul, 

Old Man! 

Oh, you were a lucky lad — 
Just as good as you were bad ! 
And the host of friends you had — 

Charley, Tom, and Dick, and Dan ; 
And the old School-Teacher, too, 
Though he often censured you; 
And the girls in pink and blue, 

Old Man. 

And — as often you have leant, 
In boyish sentiment, 
To kiss the letter sent 

By Nelly, Belle, or Nan — 
Wherein the rose's hue 
Was red, the violet blue — 
And sugar sweet — and you, 

Old Man — 
89 



THE OLD MAN 

So, to-day, as lives the bloom, 
And the sweetness, and perfume 
Of the blossoms, I assume, 

On the same mysterious plan 
The Master's love assures, 
That the selfsame boy endures 
In that hale old heart of yours,. 

Old Man. 




JAMES B. MAYNARD 

H 



IS daily, nightly task is o'er — 
He leans above his desk no more. 



His pencil and his pen say not 

One further word of gracious thought. 

All silent is his voice, yet clear 
For all a grateful world to hear; 

He poured abroad his human love 
In opulence unmeasured of — 

While, in return, his meek demand, — 
The warm clasp of a neighbor-hand 

In recognition of the true 
World's duty that he lived to do. 

So was he kin of yours and mine — 
So, even by the hallowed sign 

Of silence which he listens to, 
He hears our tears as falls the dew. 
91 




THE ANCIENT PRINTERMAN 

OPRINTERMAN of sallow face, 
And look of absent guile, 
Is it the 'copy' on your 'case' 

That causes you to smile ? 
Or is it some old treasure scrap 
You call from Memory's file? 

'•'I fain would guess its mystery — 

For often I can trace 
A fellow dreamer's history 

Whene'er it haunts the face ; 
Your fancy's running riot 

In a retrospective race! 
92 



THE ANCIENT PRINTERMAN 

"Ah, Printerman, you're straying 
Afar from 'stick' and type — 

Your heart has 'gone a-maying,' 
And you taste old kisses, ripe 

Again on lips that pucker 
At your old asthmatic pipe ! 

"You are dreaming of old pleasures 
That have faded from your view ; 

And the music-burdened measures 
Of the laughs you listen to 

Are now but angel-echoes — 
0, have I spoken true?" 

The ancient Printer hinted 
With a motion full of grace 

To where the words were printed 
On a card above his "case," — 

"I am deaf and dumb !" I left him 
With a smile upon his face. 




THE OLD MAN AND JIM 



OLD man never had much to say — 
'Ceptin' to Jim,— 
And Jim was the wildest boy he had — 

And the old man jes' wrapped up in himi 
Never heerd him speak but once 
Er twice in my life,— and first time was 
When the army broke out, and Jim he went, 
The old man backin' him, f er three months ; 
And all 'at I heerd the old man say 
Was, jes' as we turned to start away, — 
"Well, good-by, Jim: 
Take keer of yourse'f !" 
96 



THE OLD MAN AND JIM 

Teared-like, he was more satisfied 

Jes' lookin' at Jim 
And likin' him all to hisse'f-like, see ? 

'Cause he was jes' wrapped up in him ! 
And over and over I mind the day 
The old man come and stood round in the way 
While we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim — 
And down at the deepo a-heerin' him say. 

"Well, good-by, Jim: 

Take keer of yourse'f !" 

Never was nothin' about the farm, 

Disting'ished Jim; 
Neighbors all ust to wonder why 

The old man 'peared wrapped up in him. 
But when Cap. Biggler he writ back 
'At Jim was the bravest boy we had 
In the whole dern rigiment, white er black, 
And his fightin' good as his farmin' bad — 
'At he had led, with a bullet clean 
Bored through his thigh, and carried the flag 
Through the bloodiest battle you ever seen, — 
The old man wound up a letter to him 
'At Cap. read to us, 'at read : "Tell Jim 

Good-by, 

And take keer of hisse'f." 
97 



THE OLD MAN AND JIM 

Jim come home jes' long enough 

To take the whim 
'At he'd like to go back in the calvery — 

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him ! 
Jim 'lowed 'at he'd had sich luck afore, 
Guessed he'd tackle her three years more. 
And the old man give him a colt he'd raised, 
And f ollered him over to Camp Ben Wade, 
And laid around fer a week er so, 
Watchin' Jim on dress-parade — 
Tel finally he rid away, 
And last he heerd was the old man say, — 

"Well, good-by, Jim: 

Take keer of yourse'f !" 




?. ■ .. 



98 



THE OLD MAN AND JIM 

Tuk the papers' the old man did, 

A-watchin' f er Jim — 
Fully believin' he'd make his mark 

Some way — jes' wrapped up in him! — 
And many a time the word 'u'd come 
'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum — 
At Petersburg, fer instance, where 
Jim rid right into their cannons there, 
And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other way, 
And socked it home to the boys in gray 
As they scooted fer timber, and on and on — 
Jim a lieutenant, and one arm gone, 
And the old man's words in his mind all day,- 

"Well, good-by, Jim : 

Take keer of yourse'f !" 




101 



THE OLD MAN AND JIM 

Think of a private, now, perhaps, 

We 11 say like Jim, 
'At's dumb clean up to the shoulder-straps— 

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him! 
Think of him — with the war plum' through, 
And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue 
A-laughin' the news down over Jim, 
And the old man, bendin' over him — 
The surgeon turnm' away with tears 
'At hadn't leaked fer years and years, 
As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to 
His father's, the old voice in his ears, — 

"Well, good-by, Jim: 

Take keer of yourse'f !" 





THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM 

HE puts the poem by, to say 
His eyes are not themselves to-day ! 
A sudden glamour o'er his sight — 
A something vague, indefinite — 
An oft-recurring blur that blinds 
The printed meaning of the lines, 
And leaves the mind all dusk and dim 
In swimming darkness — strange to him! 
103 



THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM 

It is not childishness, I guess, 
Yet something of the tenderness 
That used to wet his lashes when 
A boy seems troubling him again ; — 
The old emotion, sweet and wild, 
That drove him truant when a child, 
That he might hide the tears that fell 
Above the lesson— "Little Nell." 
And so it is he puts aside 
The poem he has vainly tried 
To follow ; and, as one who sighs 
In failure, through a poor disguise 
Of smiles, he dries his tears, to say 
His eyes are not themselves to-day e 





MY JOLLY FRIEND'S SECRET 



AH. friend of mine, how goes it 
Since you've taken you a mate ? — 
Your smile, though, plainly shows it 

Is a very happy state ! 
Dan Cupid's necromancy! 

You must sit you down and dine, 
And lubricate your fancy 
With a glass or two of wine. 
105 



MY JOLLY FRIEND'S SECRET 

And as you have "deserted/' 

As my other chums have done, 
While I laugh alone diverted, 

As you drop off one by one — 
And I've remained unwedded, 

Till — you see — look here — that I'm, 
In a manner, "snatched bald-headed" 

By the sportive hand of Time ! 

I'm an "old 'un!" yes, but wrinkles 

Are not so plenty, quite, 
As to cover up the twinkles 

Of the boy — ain't I right? 
Yet there are ghosts of kisses 

Under this mustache of mine 
My mem'ry only misses 

When I drown 'em out with wine. 

From acknowledgment so ample, 

You would hardly take me for 
What I am — a perfect sample 

Of a "jolly bachelor" ; 
Not a bachelor has being 

When he laughs at married life 
But his heart and soul's agreeing 

That he ought to have a wife ! 
106 



MY JOLLY FRIEND'S SECRET 

Ah, ha! old chum, this claret, 

Like Fatima, holds the key 
Of the old Blue-Beardish garret 

Of my hidden mystery! 
Did you say you'd like to listen ? 

Ah, my boy! the "Sad No More!" 
And the tear-drops that will glisten— 

Turn the catch upon the door, 

And sit you down beside me 

And put yourself at ease — 
I'll trouble you to slide me 

That wine decanter, please ; 
The path is kind o' mazy 

Where my fancies have to go, 
And my heart gets sort o' lazy 

On the journey — don't you know? 

Let me see — when I was twenty — 

It's a lordly age, my boy, 
When a fellow's money's plenty, 

And the leisure to enjoy — 



109 



MY JOLLY FRIEND'S SECRET 

And a girl — with hair as golden 
As — that; and lips — well — quite 

As red as this I'm holdin' 
Between you and the light? 

And eyes and a complexion — 

Ah, heavens ! — le'-me-see — 
Well, — just in this connection, — - 

Did you lock that door for me . ? 
Did I start in recitation 

My past life to recall? 
Well, that's an indication 

I am purty tight — that's all I 




IN THE HEART OF JUNE 

IN the heart of June, love, 
You and I together, 
On from dawn till noon, love, 
Laughing with the weather ; 
Blending both our souls, love, 

In the selfsame tune, 
Drinking all life holds, love, 
In the heart of June. 

In the heart of June, love, 

With its golden weather, 
Underneath the moon, love, 

You and I together. 
Ah ! how sweet to seem, love, 

Drugged and half aswoon 
With this luscious dream, love, 

In the heart of June. 
Ill 




THE OLD BAND 

I 



Considerin , I've be'n away twenty year and 



T'S mighty good to git back to the old town, shore, 

msidei 

more. 
Sence I moved then to Kansas, of course I see a 

change, 
A-comin' back, and notice things that's new to me 

and strange; 
Especially at evening when yer new band-fellers 

meet, 
In fancy uniforms and all, and play out on the 

street — 
. . . What's come of old Bill Lindsey and the Sax- 
horn fellers — say? 

I want to hear the old band play. 
112 






THE OLD BAND 

What's come of Eastman, and Nat Snow? And 

where's War Barnett at? 
And Nate and Bony Meek ; Bill Hart ; Tom Richa'son 

and that- 
Air brother of him played the drum as twic't as big 

as Jim; 
And old Hi Kerns, the carpenter — say, what's be- 
come o' him? 
I make no doubt yer new band now's a competenter 

band, 
And plays their music more by note than what they 

play by hand, 
And stylisher and grander tunes; but somehow — 

anyway, 

I want to hear the old band play. 

Sich tunes as "John Brown's Body" and "Sweet 

Alice," don't you know ; 
And "The Camels is A-comin'," and "John Anderson, 

my Jo"; 
And a dozent others of 'em — "Number Nine" and 

"Number 'Leven" 
Was fsivo-rites that fairly made a feller dream o' 

Heaven. 

115 



THE OLD BAND 

And when the boys 'u'd saranade, I've laid so still 

- in bed 
Fve even heerd the locus'-blossoms droppin' on the 

shed 
When "Lilly Dale," er "Hazel Dell," had sobbed and 
died away — 

... I want to hear the old band play. 

Yer new band ma'by beats it, but the old band's what 

I said — 
It alius 'peared to kind o' chord with somethin' in 

my head ; 
And, whilse I'm no musicianer, when my blame' eyes 

is jes' 
Nigh drownded out, and Mem'ry squares her jaws 

and sort o' says 
She won't ner never will fergit, I want to jes' turn in 
And take and light right out o' here and git back 

West ag'in 
And stay there, when I git there, where I never haf 

to say 

I want to hear the old band play. 



• 




MY FRIEND 

'TTE is my friend/' I said, — 
-H- "Be patient!" Overhead 
The skies were drear and dim ; 
And lo ! the thought of him 
Smiled on my heart — and then 
The sun shone out again ! 

"He is my friend !" The words 
Brought summer and the birds ; 
And all my winter-time 
Thawed into running rhyme 
And rippled into song, 
Warm, tender, brave, and strong. 
117 



MY FRIEND 

And so it sings to-day. — 
So may it sing alway! 
Though waving grasses grow 
Between, and lilies blow 
Their trills of perfume clear 
As laughter to the ear, 
Let each mute measure end 
With "Still he is my friend/ 




HER VALENTINE 

SOMEBODY'S sent a funny little valentine to me. 
It's a bunch of baby-roses in a vase of filigree, 
And hovering above them — just as cute as he can 

be— 
Is a fairy Cupid tangled in a scarf of poetry. 

And the prankish little fellow looks so knowing in 
his glee, 

With his golden bow and arrow, aiming most un- 
erringly 

At a pair of hearts so labeled that I may read and see 

That one is meant for "One Who Loves," and one 
is meant for me. 

But I know the lad who sent it! It's as plain as 

A-B-C!— 
For the roses they are blushing, and the vase stands 

awkwardly, 
And the little god above it — though as cute as he 

can be — 
Can not breathe the lightest whisper of his burning 

love for me. 

119 




THE TRAVELING MAN 

COULD I pour out the nectar the gods only can, 
I would fill up my glass to the brim 
And drink the success of the Traveling Man, 

And the house represented by him ; 
And could I but tincture the glorious draught 

With his smiles, as I drank to him then, 
And the jokes he has told and the laughs he has 
laughed, 
I would fill up the goblet again — 

And drink to the sweetheart who gave him good-by 

With a tenderness thrilling him this 
Very hour, as he thinks of the tear in her eye 

That salted the sweet of her kiss ; 
To her truest of hearts and her fairest of hands 

I would drink, with all serious prayers, 
Since the heart she must trust is a Traveling Man's, 

And as warm as the ulster he wears. 

120 



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■■•■ • 


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THE TRAVELING MAN 
II 

I would drink to the wife, with the babe on her knee, 

Who awaits his returning in vain — 
Who breaks his brave letters so tremulously 

And reads them again and again! 
And I'd drink to the feeble old mother who sits 

At the warm fireside of her son 
And murmurs and weeps o'er the stocking she knits, 

As she thinks of the wandering one. 

I would drink a long life and a health to the friends 

Who have met him with smiles and with cheer — 
To the generous hand that the landlord extends 

To the wayfarer journeying here: 
And I pledge, when he turns from this earthly abode 

And pays the last fare that he can, 
Mine Host of the Inn at the End of the Road 

Will welcome the Traveling Man! 




DAN O'SULLIVAN 

DAN O'SULLIVAN: It's your 
Lips have kissed "The Blarney," sure !- 
To be trillin' praise av me, 
Dhrippin' swhate wid poethry! — 
Not that Td not have ye sing — 
Don't lave off for anything — 
Jusht be aisy whilst the fit 
Av me head sh wells up to it ! 

Dade and thrue, I'm not the man, 
Whilst yer singin', loike ye can, 
To cry shtop because ye've blesht 
My songs more than all the resht: — 
I'll not be the b'y to ax 
Any shtar to wane or wax, 
Or ax any clock that's woun' 
To run up insthid av down ! 
124 



DAN O'SULLIVAN 

Whist yez! Dan O'Sullivan! — 

Him that made the Irishman 

Mixt the birds in wid the dough, 

And the dew and mistletoe 

Wid the whusky in the quare 

Muggs av us — and here we air, 

Three parts right, and three parts wrong, 

Shpiked with beauty, wit and song! 





MY OLD FRIEND 



YOU'VE a manner all so mellow, 
My old friend, 
That it cheers and warms a fellow, 

My old friend, 
Just to meet and greet you, and 
Feel the pressure of a hand 
That one may understand, 
My old friend. 
126 



MY OLD FRIEND 

Though dimmed in youthful splendor, 

My old friend, 
Your smiles are still as tender, 

My old friend, 
And your eyes as true a blue 
As your childhood ever knew, 
And your laugh as merry, too, 

My old friend. 

For though your hair is faded, 

My old friend, 
And your step a trifle jaded, 

My old friend, 
Old Time, with all his lures 
In the trophies he secures, 
Leaves young that heart of yours, 

My old friend. 

And so it is you cheer me, 

My old friend, 
For to know you still are near me ? 

My old friend, 
Makes my hopes of clearer light, 
And my faith of surer sight, 
And my soul a purer white, 

My old friend. 
127 




OLD JOHN HENRY 

OLD John's jes' made o' the commonest stuff- 
Old John Henry- 
He's tough, I reckon,— but none too tough — 
Too tough thought better than not enough! 

Says old John Henry. 
He does his best, and when his best's bad, 
He don't fret none, ner he don't git sad- 
He simply 'lows it's the best he had : 
Old John Henry! 
128 



OLD JOHN HENRY 

His doctern's jes' o' the plainest brand — 

Old John Henry — 
A smilin' face and a hearty hand 
'S religen 'at all folks understand, 

Says old John Henry. 
He's stove up some with the rhumatiz, 
And they hain't no shine on them shoes o' his, 
And his hair hain't cut — but his eye-teeth is : 

Old John Henry! 

He feeds hisse'f when the stock's all fed — 

Old John Henry — 
And sleeps like a babe when he goes to bed — 
And dreams o' Heaven and home-made bread, 

Says old John Henry. 
He hain't refined as he'd ort to be 
To fit the statutes o' poetry, 
Ner his clothes don't fit him — but he fits me : 

Old John Henry! 




ABE MARTIN 

ABE MARTIN!— dad-burn his old picture: 
P'tends he's a Brown County fixture — 
A kind of a comical mixture 

Of hoss-sense and no sense at all! 
His mouth, like his pipe, 's alius goin', 
And his thoughts, like his whiskers, is flowin', 
And what he don't know ain't wuth knowin' — 
From Genesis clean to baseball ! 
132 




;T 




%-•", 



k x 




f* 



ABE MARTIN 

The artist, Kin Hubbard, 's so keerless 
He draws Abe 'most eyeless and earless, 
But he's never yet pictured him cheerless 

Er with fun 'at he tries to conceal, — 
Whuther on to the fence er clean over 
A-rootin' up ragweed er clover, 
Skeert stiff at some "Rambler" er "Rover" 

Er newfangled automobeel! 

It's a purty steep climate old Brown's in ; 

And the rains there his ducks nearly drowns in 

The old man hisse'f wades his rounds in 

As ca'm and serene, mighty nigh 
As the old handsaw-hawg, er the mottled 
Milch cow, er the old rooster wattled 
Like the mumps had him 'most so well throttled 

That it was a pleasure to die. 

But best of 'em all's the fool-breaks 'at 
Abe don't see at all, and yit makes 'at 
Both me and you lays back and shakes at 

His comic, miraculous cracks 
Which makes him — clean back of the power 
Of genius itse'f in its flower — 
This Notable Man of the Hour, 

Abe Martin, The Joker on Facts. 
135 




THE LITTLE OLD POEM THAT NOBODY 
READS 



THE little old poem that nobody reads 
Blooms in a crowded space, 
Like a ground-vine blossom, so low in the weeds 
That nobody sees its face — 

Unless, perchance, the reader's eye 
Stares through a yawn, and hurries by, 
For no one wants, or loves, or heeds, 
The little old poem that nobody reads. 
136 



THE LITTLE OLD POEM THAT NOBODY READS 

The little old poem that nobody reads 
Was written — where? — and when? 
Maybe a hand of goodly deeds 
Thrilled as it held the pen : 

Maybe the fountain whence it came 
Was a heart brimmed o'er with tears of sname, 
And maybe its creed is the worst of creeds — 
The little old poem that nobody reads. 

But, little old poem that nobody reads, 

Holding you here above 
The wound of a heart that warmly bleeds 
For all that knows not love, 

I well believe if the old World knew 
As dear a friend as I find in you, 
That friend would tell it that all it needs 
Is the little old poem that nobody reads. 





IN THE AFTERNOON 

YOU in the hammock ; and I, near by, 
Was trying to read, and to swing you, too; 
And the green of the sward was so kind to the eye, 
And the shade of the maples so cool and blue, 
That often I looked from the book to you 
To say as much, with a sigh. 



You in the hammock. The book we'd brought 
From the parlor — to read in the open air, — 

Something of love and of Launcelot 
And Guinevere, I believe, was there — 
But the afternoon, it was far more fair 

Than the poem was, I thought. 

138 



IN THE AFTERNOON 

You in the hammock; and on and on 

I droned and droned through the rhythmic stuff- 
But, with always a half of my vision gone 

Over the top of the page — enough 

To caressingly gaze at you, swathed in the fluff 
Of your hair and your odorous "lawn." 

You in the hammock — and that was a year — 
Fully a year ago, I guess — 

And what do we care for their Guinevere 
And her Launcelot and their lordliness!— 
You in the hammock still, and — Yes — 

Kiss me again, my dear! 




BECAUSE 

WHY did we meet long years of yore ? 
And why did we strike hands and say : 
"We will be friends and nothing more" ; 
Why are we musing thus to-day ? 
Because because was just because, 
And no one knew just why it was. 

Why did I say good-by to you ? 

Why did I sail across the main? 
Why did I love not heaven's own blue 
Until I touched these shores again ? 
Because because was just because, 
And you nor I knew why it was. 

Why are my arms about you now, 

And happy tears upon your cheek ? 
And why my kisses on your brow? 
Look up in thankfulness and speak ! 
Because because was just because, 
And only God knew why it was. 
142 




HERR WEISER 

HERR WEISER !— Threescore years and ten,- 
A hale white rose of his countrymen, 
Transplanted here in the Hoosier loam, 
And blossomy as his German home — 
As blossomy and as pure and sweet 
As the cool green glen of his calm retreat, 
Far withdrawn from the noisy town 
Where trade goes clamoring up and down, 
Whose fret and fever, and stress and strife, 
May not trouble his tranquil life! 

143 



HERR WEISER 

Breath of rest, what a balmy gust! — 

Quit of the city's heat and dust, 

Jostling- down by the winding road 

Through the orchard ways of his quaint abode.— 

Tether the horse, as we onward fare 

Under the pear trees trailing there, 

And thumping the wooden bridge at night 

With lumps of ripeness and lush delight, 

Till the stream, as it maunders on till dawn, 

Is powdered and pelted and smiled upon. 

Herr Weiser, with his wholesome face, 

And the gentle blue of his eyes, and grace 

Of unassuming honesty, 

Be there to welcome you and me ! 

And what though the toil of the farm be stopped 

And the tireless plans of the place be dropped, 

While the prayerful master's knees are set 

In beds of pansy and mignonette 

And lily and aster and columbine, 

Offered in love, as yours and mine? — 



144 



HERR WEISER 

What, but a blessing of kindly thought, 

Sweet as the breath of forget-me-not! — 

What, but a spirit of lustrous love 

White as the aster he bends above! — 

What, but an odorous memory 

Of the dear old man, made known to me 

In days demanding a help like his, — 

As sweet as the life of the lily is — 

As sweet as the soul of a babe, bloom-wise 

Born of a lily in Paradise. 




* i 




A MOTHER-SONG 

MOTHER, mother ! forever I cry for you. 
Sing the old song I may never forget ; 
Even in slumber I murmur and sigh for you. — 
Mother, mother, 

Sing low, "Little brother, 
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet !" 
148 



A MOTHER-SONG 

Mother, mother ! the years are so lonely, 
Filled but with weariness, doubt and regret ! 

Can't you come back to me — for to-night only, 
Mother, my mother, 

And sing, "Little brother, 

Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!" 

Mother, mother! of old I had never 
One wish denied me, nor trouble to fret ; 

Now — must I cry out all vainly forever, — 
Mother, sweet mother, 

sing, "Little brother, 

Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!" 

Mother, mother ! must longing and sorrow 
Leave me in darkness, with eyes ever wet, 

And never the hope of a meeting to-morrow ? 
Answer me, mother, 

And sing, "Little brother, 

Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!" 




WHAT "OLD SANTA" OVERHEARD 

'Tis said old Santa Clans one time 
Told this joke on himself in rhyme: 

ONE Christmas, in the early din 
That ever leads the morning in, 
I heard the happy children shout 
In rapture at the toys turned out 
Of bulging little socks and shoes — 
A joy at which I could but choose 
To listen enviously, because 
I'm always just "Old Santa Claus," — 
But ere my rising sigh had got 
To its first quaver at the thought, 
It broke in laughter, as I heard 
A little voice chirp like a bird, — 
150 



WHAT "OLD SANTA" OVERHEARD 

"Old Santa's mighty good, I know, 
And awful rich — and he can go 
Down ever' chimbly anywhere 
In all the world! — But I don't care, 
/ wouldn't trade with him, and be 
Old Santa Clause, and him be me, 
Fer all his toys and things ! — and / 
Know why, and bet you he knows why !- 
They wuz no Santa Clause when he 
Wuz ist a little boy like me!" 




THE STEPMOTHER 

FIRST she come to our house, 
Tommy run and hid; 
And Emily and Bob and me 
We cried jus' like we did 
When Mother died, — and we all said 
'At we all wisht 'at we was dead! 

And Nurse she couldn't stop us; 

And Pa he tried and tried, — 
We sobbed and shook and wouldn't look, 

But only cried and cried; 
And nen some one — we couldn't jus' 
Tell who — was cryin' same as us! 

Our Stepmother ! Yes, it was her, 

Her arms around us all — 
'Cause Tom slid down the banister 

And peeked in from the hall. — 
And we all love her, too, because 
She's purt' nigh good as Mother was! 
152 




WHEN OLD JACK DIED 

WHEN Old Jack died, we stayed from school 
(they said, 
At home, we needn't go that day) , and none 
Of us ate any breakfast — only one, 
And that was Papa — and his eyes were red 
When he came round where we were, by the shed 
Where Jack was lying, half-way in the sun 
And half-way in the shade. When we begun 
To cry out loud, Pa turned and dropped his head 
And went away; and Mama, she went back 
Into the kitchen. Then, for a long while, 
All to ourselves, like, we stood there and cried. 
We thought so many good things of Old Jack, 
And funny things — although we didn't smile — 
We couldn't only cry when Old Jack died. 

153 



WHEN OLD JACK DIED 

When Old Jack died, it seemed a human friend 

Had suddenly gone from us; that some face 

That we had loved to fondle and embrace 

From babyhood, no more would condescend 

To smile on us forever. We might bend 

With tearful eyes above him, interlace 

Our chubby fingers o'er him, romp and race, 

Plead with him, call and coax — aye, we might send 

The old halloo up for him, whistle, hist, 

(If sobs had let us) or, as wildly vain, 

Snapped thumbs, called "Speak," and he had not 

replied; 
We might have gone down on our knees and kissed 
The tousled ears, and yet they must remain 
Deaf, motionless, we knew — when Old Jack died. 

When Old Jack died, it seemed to us, some way, 
That all the other dogs in town were pained 
With our bereavement, and some that were chained, 
Even, unslipped their collars on that day 



154 



WHEN OLD JACK DIED 

To visit Jack in state, as though to pay 
A last, sad tribute there, while neighbors craned 
Their heads above the high board fence, and deigned 
To sigh "Poor Dog!" remembering how they 
Had cuffed him, when alive, perchance, because, 
For love of them he leaped to lick their hands — 
Now, that he could not, were they satisfied? 
We children thought that, as we crossed his paws, 
And o'er his grave, Vay down the bottom-lands, 
Wrote "Our First Love Lies Here," when Old Jack 
died. 





THAT NIGHT 

YOU and I, and that night, with its perfume and 
glory !— 
The scent of the locusts — the light of the moon ; 
And the violin weaving the waltzers a story, 
Enmeshing their feet in the weft of the tune, 
Till their shadows uncertain 
Reeled round on the curtain, 
While under the trellis we drank in the June. 

158 



THAT NIGHT 

Soaked through with the midnight the cedars were 
sleeping, 
Their shadowy tresses outlined in the bright 
Crystal, moon-smitten mists, where the fountain's 
heart, leaping 
Forever, forever burst, full with delight; 
And its lisp on my spirit 
Fell faint as that near it 
Whose love like a lily bloomed out in the night. 

your glove .was an odorous sachet of blisses ! 

The breath of your fan was a breeze from Cathay ! 
And the rose at your throat was a nest of spilled 
kisses ! — 
And the music! — in fancy I hear it to-day, 
As I sit here, confessing 
Our secret, and blessing 
My rival who found us, and waltzed you away. 





TO ALMON KEEFER 

Inscribed in "Tales of the Ocean' : 

THIS first book that I ever knew 
Was read aloud to me by you — 
Friend of my boyhood, therefore take 
It back from me, for old times' sake — 
The selfsame "Tales" first read to me, 
Under "the old sweet apple tree," 
Ere I myself could read such great 
Big words, — but listening all elate, 
At your interpreting, until 
Brain, heart and soul were all athrill 
With wonder, awe, and sheer excess 
Of wildest childish happiness. 
160 



TO ALMON KEEPER 

So take the book again — forget 
All else, — long years, lost hopes, regret ; 
Sighs for the joys we ne'er attain, 
Prayers we have lifted all in vain; 
Tears for the faces seen no more, 
Once as the roses at the door ! 
Take the enchanted book — And lo, 
Or grassy swards of long ago, 
Sprawl out again, beneath the shade 
The breezy old-home orchard made, 
The veriest barefoot boy indeed — 
And I will listen as you read. 





A SONG OF LONG AGO 

A SONG of Long Ago : 
Sing it lightly — sing it low — 
Sing it softly — like the lisping of the lips we 

used to know 
When our baby-laughter spilled 
From the glad hearts ever filled 
With music blithe as robin ever trilled! 

Let the fragrant summer breeze, 

And the leaves of locust-trees, 

And the apple-buds and blossoms, and the 

wings of honey-bees, 
All palpitate with glee, 
Till the happy harmony 
Brings back each childish joy to you and me. 
164 



A SONG OF LONG AGO 

Let the eyes of fancy turn 

Where the tumbled pippins burn 

Like embers in the orchard's lap of tangled 

grass and fern, — 
There let the old path wind 
In and out and on behind 
The cider-press that chuckles as we grind. 

Blend in the song the moan 

Of the dove that grieves alone, 

And the wild whir of the locust, and the 

bumble's drowsy drone; 
And the low of cows that call 
Through the pasture-bars when all 
The landscape fades away at evenfall. 

Then, far away and clear, 

Through the dusky atmosphere, 

Let the wailing of the killdee be the only 

sound we hear: 
sad and sweet and low 
As the memory may know 
Is the glad-pathetic song of Long Ago! 



167 




TO THE QUIET OBSERVER 

AFTER HIS LONG SILENCE 



DEAR old friend of us all in need 
Who know the worth of a friend indeed, 
How rejoiced are we all to learn 
Of your glad return. 
168 



TO THE QUIET OBSERVER 

We who have missed your voice so long — 
Even as March might miss the song 
Of the sugar-bird in the maples when 
They're tapped again. 

Even as the memory of these 
Blended sweets, — the sap of the trees 
And the song of the birds, and the old camp too, 
We think of you. 

Hail to you, then, with welcomes deep 
As grateful hearts may laugh or weep! — 
You give us not only the bird that sings, 
But all good things. 





REACH YOUR HAND TO ME 



REACH your hand to me, my friend, 
With its heartiest caress — 
Sometime there will come an end 
To its present faithfulness — 
Sometime I may ask in vain 
For the touch of it again, 
When between us land or sea 
Holds it ever back from me. 
170 



REACH YOUR HAND TO ME 

Sometime I may need it so, 

Groping somewhere in the night, 
It will seem to me as though 
Just a touch, however light, 

Would make all the darkness day, 
And along some sunny way 
Lead me through an April-shower 
Of my tears to this fair hour. 

the present is too sweet 

To go on forever thus! 
Round the corner of the street 

Who can say what waits for us? — 
Meeting — greeting, night and day, 
Faring each the selfsame way — 
Still somewhere the path must end — 
Reach your hand to me, my friend ! 





THE DEAD JOKE AND THE FUNNY MAN 

LONG years ago, a funny man, 
Flushed with a strange delight, 
Sat down and wrote a funny thing 

All in the solemn night ; 
And as he wrote he clapped his hands 
And laughed with all his might. 
For it was such a funny thing, 
0, such a very funny thing, 
This wonderfully funny thing, 
He 

Laughed 

Outright. 

174 



THE DEAD JOKE AND THE FUNNY MAN 

And so it was this funny man 
Printed this funny thing — 
Forgot it, too, nor ever thought 

It worth remembering, 
Till but a day or two ago. 

(Ah! what may changes bring!) 
He found this selfsame funny thing 
In an exchange — "0, funny thing!" 
He cried, "You dear old funny thing !" 
And 
Sobbed 

Outright. 





CHRISTMAS GREETING 



A WORD of Godspeed and good cheer 
To all on earth, or far or near, 
Or friend or foe, or thine or mine — 
In echo of the voice divine, 
Heard when the star bloomed forth and lit 
The world's face, with God's smile on it. 
176 




AMERICA'S THANKSGIVING 

1900 

FATHER all bountiful, in mercy bear 
With this our universal voice of prayer — 
The voice that needs must be 
Upraised in thanks to Thee, 
Father, from Thy children everywhere. 



A multitudinous voice, wherein we fain 
Wouldst have Thee hear no lightest sob of pain- 
No murmur of distress, 
Nor moan of loneliness, 
Nor drip of tears, though soft as summer rain. 

177 



AMERICA'S THANKSGIVING 

And, Father, give us first to comprehend, 

No ill can come from Thee; lean Thou and lend 

Us clearer sight to see 

Our boundless debt to Thee, 
Since all Thy deeds are blessings, in the end. 

And let us feel and know that, being Thine, 

We are inheritors of hearts divine, 

And hands endowed with skill, 
And strength to work Thy will, 

And fashion to fulfillment Thy design. 

So, let us thank Thee, with all self aside, 
Nor any lingering taint of mortal pride; 

As here to Thee we dare 

Uplift our faltering prayer, 
Lend it some fervor of the glorified. 

We thank Thee that our land is loved of Thee 
The blessed home of thrift and industry, 

With ever-open door 

Of welcome to the poor — 
Thy shielding hand o'er all abidingly. 



178 






AMERICA'S THANKSGIVING 

E'en thus we thank Thee for the wrong that grew 
Into a right that heroes battled to, 

With brothers long estranged, 

Once more as brothers ranged 
Beneath the red and white and starry blue. 

Ay, thanks — though tremulous the thanks ex- 
pressed — 
Thanks for the battle at its worst, and best — 

For all the clanging fray 

Whose discord dies away 
Into a pastoral-song of peace and rest. 





*g*F" 



OLD INDIANY 

Intended for a Dinner of the Indiana 
Society of Chicago 



OLD Indiany, 'course we know- 
Is first, and best, and most, also, 
Of all the States' whole forty-four : — 
She's first in ever'thing, that's shore! — 
And best in ever' way as yet 
Made known to man ; and you kin bet 
She's most, because she won't confess 
She ever was, or will be, less! 
And yet, fer all her proud array 
Of sons, how many gits away ! — 
180 



OLD INDIANY 

No doubt about her bein' great 
But, fellers, she's a leaky State! 
And them that boasts the most about 
Her, them's the ones that's dribbled out. 
Law ! jes' to think of all you boys 
'Way over here in Illinoise 
A-celebratin', like ye air, 
Old Indiany, 'way back there 
In the dark ages, so to speak, 
A-prayin' for ye once a week 
And wonderin' what's a-keepin' you 
From comin', like you ort to do. 
You're all a-lookin' well, and like 
You wasn't "sidin' up the pike," 
As the tramp-shoemaker said 
When "he sacked the boss and shed 
The blame town, to hunt fer one 
Where they didn't work fer fun!" 
Lookin' extry well, I'd say, 
Your old home so fur away. — 



183 



OLD INDIANY 

Maybe, though, like the old jour., 
Fun hain't all yer workin' fer. 
So you've found a job that pays 
Better than in them old days 
You was on The Weekly Press, 
Heppin' run things, more er less; 
Er a-learnin' telegraph- 
Operatin', with a half- 
Notion of the tinner's trade, 
Er the dusty man's that laid 
Out designs on marble and 
Hacked out little lambs by hand, 
And chewed finecut as he wrought, 
"Shapin' from his bitter thought" 
Some squshed mutterings to say, — 
"Yes, hard work, and porer pay!" 
Er you'd kind o' thought the far- 
Gazin' kuss that owned a car 
And took pictures in it, had 
Jes' the snap you wanted — bad! 
And you even wondered why 
He kep' foolin' with his sky- 
Light the same on shiny days 
As when rainin'. ('T leaked always.) 
184 



OLD INDIANY 

Wondered what strange things was hid 
In there when he shet the door 
And smelt like a burnt drug store 
Next some orchard-trees, i swan ! 
With whole roasted apples on! 
That's why Ade is, here of late, 
Buyin' in the dear old state, — 
So's to cut it up in plots 
Of both town and country lots. 




